No, this is the voice. I’m in control of my actions. I’m not going to jump the curb. Have I ever caused an accident? Been in one? No.
Her hands, perfectly spaced on the steering wheel the way they showed you in Drivers’ Ed, grew slick with sweat. Too slick? Would she lose control of the vehicle and jump the curb? Did her hands want to tug the steering wheel to the right? That could happen, couldn’t it? Her mind played the answer: a bloody movie running on a broken projector to a broken soundtrack.
Katie drove past and glanced in the rearview mirror. The little girl, she couldn’t see her. Did that mean she’d hit her? Hands, Katie, watch your hands, make sure they don’t slip. Oh, God, had she—hit the child? I killed a child. I have to stop right now. Put both feet on the brake and engage the parking brake. She leaned forward, her back rigid. No.
A feeling isn’t an action. Panic is nothing but panic. It comes from OCD, not fact. What can I see in the real world? What are the facts? Look, there’s a man walking his dog. That’s real. So’s the squirrel darting across the road. Good, good. Heart rate’s coming down. I can do this, I can do this. Eyes ahead, Katie, read the road. Keep to the speed limit, watch for cars pulling out. You’ve got this.
Music, she needed music. The National. Yes, that was a good choice, always calming. But that meant stopping to find a CD, and if she stopped, she might never start again.
Look ahead, Katie, read the road. Keep to the speed limit, watch for cars pulling out. You’ve got this. No, no, I haven’t. That little girl back there? What if I killed her, and I’m fleeing the scene of a crime? That makes me a criminal as well as an unfit mother. I need to go back and check. Check I didn’t kill her. Go back and check check check check.
A thought is just a thought; it has no power.
What if I hit that little girl, and I don’t go back? What if that dark stain on my window is blood, her blood?
Thoughts are nothing more than ones and zeros. My mind is running what-if math problems like a possessed calculator. And I hate math. Are you listening, OCD? I hate math.
I control fire; I am strong.
Katie flicked on the turn signal—flicked it on with purpose, with strength, with control, OCD—and entered the maze of residential streets that led out of the subdivision. She turned right, then left. The road widened, and a median planted with burning bushes—still green—stretched out on her left. To her right was the lake with the fountain. Behind it sat the clubhouse and the entrance to the pool. Ahead was the exit from her old neighborhood. The city street that would take her to Falls of Neuse Road and back to I-540, the road that looped around the capital. But a fast road, a multilane racetrack. How many high-speed accidents were fatal? What were the statistics? What if she caused a wreck on I-540? How many people would die because of her? And what about the little girl?
I need to turn around, go back and check. Make sure she’s okay. Go back and check. If I don’t, I’m a criminal. What if I left the scene of an accident?
I-540 would take her to the interstate, which would take her to the Durham Freeway, which would lead to her quiet, sunlit apartment. To her big white bed. To a place where she could be alone and not hurt anyone.
I should turn around and go back. What if I ran over that little girl? What if she’s bleeding to death in the gutter? What if her mom can’t help her? What if I hit her, too? Killed them both . . .
Katie kept going; so did the voice. She pulled onto I-540 and settled into a middle lane. So many lanes, so many cars passing on both sides. Everyone driving too fast. Was that a siren in the distance, getting closer and closer? Yes, and it’s gaining. She had killed the little girl, the cops were coming for her, and she was going to jail. She’d left the scene of an accident. Why, why hadn’t she turned around?
She glanced up at her rearview mirror. Not a cop car, but an ambulance. She needed to pull over, but she was hemmed in. How, how did you pull over when there was nowhere to go? She hit the brakes; the car behind honked; the ambulance dodged in front and sped away. By some miracle, she was still driving. She was still on the road. She hadn’t caused a pileup. But who was in the ambulance?
The little girl I killed. I should be in jail.
A bead of sweat snaked toward her right eye, and she raised her hand to—No. Two hands on the wheel, Katie. Two hands. Quickly, she moved her hands back into position. Everything was better with two, but not right now. Once she got home, she would crawl into bed and stay there. Isolate.
It all came back to truth. Undeniable truth: What if I’m capable of doing the things my mind sees? What if I’m no different from a person who thinks twice before committing murder?
TWENTY-TWO
LILAH
Amazing how you could devote your adult life to finding new knowledge, new understanding, and then fall back on a hackneyed mantra: It’s all fine.
Lilah gave her mom one more “fine” and hung up the phone after their weekly Sunday-afternoon chat. With seven grandchildren under her belt, the novelty of a new baby joining the family had worn off, but her mother took maternal duties seriously. And at the top of her current worry list was whether Baby MacD’s lack of name meant that her own baby was in denial. Lilah had assured her mother everything was fine, because the last thing Maisie needed was stepgranny on the doorstep with a bulging suitcase of concern.
The paddles of the living room ceiling fan turned slowly, and the air conditioner kicked on with an efficient click. That new compressor was the bomb, which it should be, given the price tag. Callum’s half-drunk cup of coffee stared at her from the coffee table. Lilah turned her back on it and headed into the kitchen. Once she reached for his Doctor Who mug and put it in the dishwasher, she would be entering the first stage of her new life: dumping his leftovers. Would his clothes follow?
A squirrel launched itself from the railing of the back deck onto the big oak and chased another squirrel. The hands of the kitchen clock moved steadily, marking out her before moment. Before friends and family knew. Before she owed anyone an explanation. Before she had to answer to the curiosity of others. Her sparkly new secret was hers and hers alone: I kicked my husband to the curb. The clock also reminded her that another thirty minutes had ticked away.
Lilah rubbed her belly. “You doing okay in there, sprout? Let’s go check on your sister again.” And this time she wasn’t taking “Leave me alone” as a rejection.
Lilah opened the freezer and pulled out the unopened pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. She moved around the kitchen on autopilot: two spoons from the drawer next to the dishwasher, check; two paper napkins from the napkin holder on the middle of the table, check. Leave the kitchen and mount the stairs. Check and check. She knocked on Maisie’s door.
“Sweetie? Evil Stepmom is here to feed you an obscene amount of Phish Food.”
No answer.
“Ice cream for lunch is a pretty sweet deal. If three o’clock counts as lunchtime.”
The door creaked open, and then Maisie scurried away and threw herself on top of the rumpled covers. It was suffocatingly hot inside, given that Maisie had stopped using the ceiling fan after it had developed “an annoying clunk.” The electrician was supposed to fix it later in the week. Maybe he could fix everything else while he was at it.
Lilah sat on the edge of Maisie’s bed, which was tucked against a wall painted midnight-blue to cover up some mural that no other color could erase. Everything in Maisie’s room had its place. No one was allowed to touch anything, including the cleaning lady. Until this moment, Lilah had never questioned that as odd. Then again, she’d questioned so little in her ready-made family.
She put the ice cream down on the floor and rubbed Maisie’s back.
“Where’s my dad?” Maisie mumbled into her comforter.
“I sent everyone away. There’s no one here but you and me, kiddo.”
Maisie sat up and crossed her legs. Tucking her thumb under her palm, she brushed her hair twice on one side, twice on the other—a nervous hab
it that had snuck in during the last few weeks, along with Katie Mack.
“What happens next?” Maisie said.
“For starters, I plan to eat my weight in ice cream. And given how large I am, that could take a while.” Lilah picked up the ice cream and handed over a spoon and a napkin. She wouldn’t have bothered with the napkin, but Maisie wasn’t big on food in her bedroom.
Lilah popped the top of the ice cream container and excavated a fudge fish. “And then serious retail therapy on your dad’s credit card. It’s definitely time you designed a pair of Converse high-tops.”
“Those are super expensive. Ellie’s dad bought her a pair, and her mom was fur-ious.” Maisie scowled. “I don’t think my dad would approve.”
“Good. You want to get your ears pierced, too? We could get matching earrings as part of a new, exclusive mother-daughter group I’m calling Girls with Attitude.”
“Thank you, but I’ve decided I’m not getting my ears pierced. Ava Grace’s big sister got an in-fection when she had hers done last week. She said it was very painful.” Maisie went quiet and ate a miniscule scoop of ice cream. “I feel super bad about using the h-word. That was mean.”
“No, it wasn’t. You were expressing anger that your dad and Uncle Jake needed to hear. Anger is an important part of grieving, and you and I have lots of grieving to do.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“You grew up with certain facts about your family. Turns out those facts were wrong. Now you and I have to find ways to make sense of this new information so we can adapt and encompass the change.”
Maisie did the thing with her hair again. “I don’t like change.”
“That’s why we’re going to meet a friend of mine for lunch tomorrow. He’s a psychologist at Duke, and I hope you’ll talk to him. It’s healthy to talk about your feelings, even negative ones.”
“Am I a bad kid for using the h-word?” Maisie whispered.
“No. I wanted to use it, too.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Only because you got the jump on me. You’ve had a lot to process today, my little M&M. Too much for any person, even an adult. And I think talking to a professional would be a good idea. Maybe we can get a price break on family therapy.”
“Is that what he is, a therapist? I heard my dad saying he didn’t want me to see one.”
“He doesn’t, but your . . . other mom does. And so does Uncle Jake, and so do I.”
“You mean, my dad’s wrong?”
“No. I think he’s scared.” Lilah dug deep into the ice cream.
“When we were all outside, he did say he was scared.” Maisie frowned. “But scared of what? I still don’t understand.”
“Who does your father love more than anyone?”
Maisie looked at her spoon. “Before he met you, I used to think it was me.”
“Sweetie, it still is. The first thing I learned about your father was that nothing was ever more important than you. It was stated as fact in our department: ‘Professor MacDonald’s great to work with, but he’ll insist on Skyping in to your thesis defense if his little girl gets sick.’ My guess is that he wants so desperately to be the best daddy in the world that he can’t admit he might need help.” Lilah popped her spoon into her mouth and giggled. “Brain freeze!”
Maisie smiled, but the smile didn’t stay in place.
“And one thing I learned from growing up with four siblings is that family life is an obstacle course. This feels huge—an epic crisis—and we’re going to wallow. But then we’re going to figure out how to move forward. Together, with all of us heading in the same direction. That’s what family does when the road ahead gets bumpy.”
Wow. For one whole minute she’d convinced herself that she no longer wanted to castrate her husband or do unspeakable things to his wingman. “And I hope you’ll talk to my psychologist friend about your voice.”
“No, no.” Maisie shook her head and kept shaking it. “I can’t! Look what happened when I spoke about it outside! Those things . . . I can’t talk about them, because what if—what if I say them out loud and they come true and that proves that I’m a bad person and it’s all my fault?”
“I see your problem.”
Maisie stopped shaking. “You do?”
“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
“That’s a very bad word, Lilah. You shouldn’t use it. Awful things could happen, and—”
“Damned? It’s just a word. Words can’t hurt you.”
“Kat—” Maisie covered her mouth.
“It’s okay to use her name, sweetie.”
Maisie shook her head again; outside, car doors slammed.
“Is it frightening, having a voice?”
“I can’t talk about it. My fear thermometer is very high right now.”
Fear thermometer? That must be something Katie had taught her. Clearly Katie and Maisie had been spending time together. Clearly Callum had not shared that fact, either.
“Ohhh,” Lilah said as heartburn cramped in her chest and throat.
“Is something wrong with the baby? Do you need me to call Daddy?” Maisie tugged on the hem of her T-shirt.
“Not on my account.” Lilah patted her chest. “Heartburn. Best-kept secret in pregnancy.”
“Would you like me to tell you where Daddy keeps his Zantac?”
“I’m not big on taking meds, especially not”—Lilah blew out a long, slow breath—“while pregnant. Hey, stop looking at me as if I’ve sprouted three heads.”
“Four. Can you make it four?”
“If you’ll smile for me.”
“Promise me you’re okay.”
“Sweetie, I’m fine. I’m way tougher than I look. Despite my four heads.”
“Promise me again. If anything happens to you, I’ll, I’ll—”
“Hey, stop before you hyperventilate.” Lilah held up the Phish Food. “I think you’re suffering from a severe case of empty tummy. Ice cream is the cure. Eat up.”
Maisie threw herself back down on her pillows. “I’m so angry, it hurts, and I want to go back to before this ever happened. I want it to be before.”
“Me too, sweetie.” Lilah stroked Maisie’s hair. “But that’s not possible, so we need a new train of thought.”
“Why did this happen? Why did any of it have to happen?”
“Because adults have lived longer than kids, which gives us more chances to screw up.”
“What am I supposed to think about Katie? What if I’m like her, and what if—”
“Forget she’s your mom for a moment. What did you think about Katie Mack when you met her?”
“That she was super awesome. And when she told me about her voice, I was happy because it was a secret we shared. But that was before I knew who she really is and that she’d worried about doing wicked things to me.”
“I did some homework on this voice. Got to love Google.” Lilah smiled. “One thing I’ve learned already is that OCD focuses on whatever frightens you most. For a new mom, that would be someone harming her baby.”
“And she did have a funny turn when we met.”
“There you go. Additional evidence. Imagine how she must have felt seeing you again.”
“You’re not acting like Evil Stepmom.” Maisie paused. “Are you going to leave me, too?”
“Never. You’re stuck with me and your brother or sister for the rest of your life. I love cold, hard facts, don’t you?” Lilah spooned out more ice cream, which had softened quickly in the heat of Maisie’s room.
“Do you feel as if you got smashed apart and put back together all upside down and inside out?” Maisie said.
“Unfortunately, yes. And I’m pretty sure my heart’s stitched to the outside of my body.”
“Does that mean you don’t love my dad anymore?”
“Love isn’t that fickle, sweetie. Right now my anger’s sucking up everything inside me. The love I have for your father is hiding behind it, but that
’s okay. Today I need to be mad at him, and I’ll figure out everything else tomorrow.”
“Daddy taught me to tell the truth. He told me that as long as I was honest with him, he could never be mad at me. And then he lied about everything.” Maisie heaved out a sigh.
“Tell me what you need, Maisie, and I’ll follow your lead.”
“I can’t be part of the docent program.”
Lilah waved it away. “Consider it gone. First thing tomorrow I’ll call the director and say we have a family emergency.”
“Thank you.”
The landline rang, and the answering machine kicked in. “I need to know you’re both okay.” Callum’s voice filled the house. “Please, Lilah. I love you. Let me come home.”
“It’s your call, Maisie. Are you ready to talk to your dad?”
Maisie threw herself into Lilah’s arms and sobbed as the remainder of the ice cream melted into the carpet.
TWENTY-THREE
JAKE
Delaney pushed past him the moment he opened the door to Studio C, one of the three buildings that housed Kids on Film. She’d refused to meet him anywhere with a bed, and Studio C was empty except for a stack of chairs. Since his short-term goal was shit-faced oblivion, tonight he’d likely be sleeping in Studio B, the old shed that now housed the props. Or maybe he could curl up in a corner of the boys’ changing room in Studio A. One of the many pluses of being single: no one cared where you crashed.
“No problems finding this place, then?” He shut the door but not fast enough. A blue-tailed skink shot in and headed for the bathroom. Great. He’d have to catch that sucker and relocate it before he left. Why was he thinking about lizards? He turned. Oh, yeah.
The bottle of moonshine, full minus one swig, was serving its purpose as a prop. Keeping his right hand occupied while it was itching to pull her close. But his eyes found their target: Delaney’s breasts, once a favorite place to lay his head. He had told himself he wouldn’t look anywhere but at her face, the same way he told himself “This is the last time” whenever he sent a text that read Maisie Emergency.
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